Freebsd Fortunes 3: 696 of 2182 |
Coach: Can I draw you a beer, Norm?
Norm: No, I know what they look like. Just pour me one.
-- Cheers, No Help Wanted
Coach: How about a beer, Norm?
Norm: Hey I'm high on life, Coach. Of course, beer is my life.
-- Cheers, No Help Wanted
Coach: How's a beer sound, Norm?
Norm: I dunno. I usually finish them before they get a word in.
-- Cheers, Fortune and Men's Weights
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Freebsd Fortunes 3: 697 of 2182 |
Coach: How's it going, Norm?
Norm: Daddy's rich and Momma's good lookin'.
-- Cheers, Truce or Consequences
Sam: What's up, Norm?
Norm: My nipples. It's freezing out there.
-- Cheers, Coach Returns to Action
Coach: What's the story, Norm?
Norm: Thirsty guy walks into a bar. You finish it.
-- Cheers, Endless Slumper
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Freebsd Fortunes 3: 698 of 2182 |
Coach: What would you say to a beer, Normie?
Norm: Daddy wuvs you.
-- Cheers, The Mail Goes to Jail
Sam: What'd you like, Normie?
Norm: A reason to live. Gimme another beer.
-- Cheers, Behind Every Great Man
Sam: What will you have, Norm?
Norm: Well, I'm in a gambling mood, Sammy. I'll take a glass
of whatever comes out of that tap.
Sam: Oh, looks like beer, Norm.
Norm: Call me Mister Lucky.
-- Cheers, The Executive's Executioner
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Freebsd Fortunes 3: 699 of 2182 |
Coach: What's up, Norm?
Norm: Corners of my mouth, Coach.
-- Cheers, Fortune and Men's Weights
Coach: What's shaking, Norm?
Norm: All four cheeks and a couple of chins, Coach.
-- Cheers, Snow Job
Coach: Beer, Normie?
Norm: Uh, Coach, I dunno, I had one this week.
Eh, why not, I'm still young.
-- Cheers, Snow Job
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Freebsd Fortunes 3: 700 of 2182 |
COBOL:
An exercise in Artificial Inelegance.
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Freebsd Fortunes 3: 701 of 2182 |
COBOL:
Completely Over and Beyond reason Or Logic.
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Freebsd Fortunes 3: 702 of 2182 |
COBOL is for morons.
-- Edsger W. Dijkstra
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Freebsd Fortunes 3: 703 of 2182 |
Cobol programmers are down in the dumps.
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Freebsd Fortunes 3: 704 of 2182 |
COBOL programs are an exercise in Artificial Inelegance.
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Freebsd Fortunes 3: 705 of 2182 |
Coding is easy; All you do is sit staring at a
terminal until the drops of blood form on your forehead.
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